


what will i do without the weight of you

by gayprophets



Series: collide the spaces that divide us [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), The Adventure Zone - Amnesty - Fandom
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Love, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Tenderness, Two narrators, Yearning., a very minimal road trip that is for the plot, oh my god there was only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 16:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20509754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayprophets/pseuds/gayprophets
Summary: “ID, please,” the receptionist says, and Barclay holds it out to her. She barely bothers glancing at it before she hands it back. Mama’s put the cigarettes away when Barclay looks again, playing with her lighter and leaning against one of the pillars of the small porch. The square bolt of her jaw flexes as she clenches her teeth, and the stormcloud of her hair glints with pink highlights in the glow of the buzzing neon vacancy sign. She flicks the zippo closed, pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, her breath fogging in the cold air.“Dude,” the receptionist says, exasperated, and he realizes she’s holding her hand out, an unimpressed eyebrow raised.“Sorry,” he says, and pulls out Mama’s wallet. “How much?”-Mama and Barclay open Amnesty Lodge for business in late fall of 1999. Some Sylphs have trouble getting there, resulting in a road trip or two. They're horribly in love, and don't quite realize it's requited. Commissioned by Diego.





	what will i do without the weight of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toastling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastling/gifts).

> warning for mentions of homelessness and vague drug addictions/overdoses (no drugs are used by the main characters). also smoking.

Mama opens Amnesty Lodge for business in late fall of 1999, and Barclay sends word out to every earthbound Sylph he can get in contact with. Most of the people he could reach were content to stay where they were - they had gotten papers and jobs and spouses and mortgages, but they passed the address and phone number out to other folks they knew. So, it takes a while for its Sylvan patrons to actually arrive. This is mostly down to distance - almost everyone who got exiled quickly headed westward, where there were a greater variety of hot springs to pick from to sustain themselves with.

Barclay was one of them, until he found a chunk of ‘orange calcite’ at a thrift shop in 1997, no bigger than his thumb. It was sitting on a shelf next to its more common brethren - malachite, amethyst, poor quality white quartz, a pop of tangerine sunrise glowing so soft it could be seen as a trick of the light. He felt his face go numb and cold with fear that he could be wrong, his heart beat quicker in his chest, and when he picked it up it felt… It felt like coming home. A hunger he didn’t know he had, sated. It shone bright between his shaking fingers for just a moment, then went back to a faint glimmer.

He turned it over, looking for a price. $9.99.

“Do you barter on any of this?” Barclay asked the owner, staring down at the shard. It was in full view of the register, and he’d felt her watching the whole time, so he couldn’t just pocket it.

She clicked her tongue at him, hummed. He looked over at her where she perched behind the counter, her feet tucked behind the rungs of the stool she sat on. Her brown boots were clean, but her jeans were covered in dust, and her shirt read  _ Iron Maiden _ across the bust in faded letters, peeling artwork beneath it. He watched her eye him over, her lips quirking into a wry slant. He was skinny back then, all wiry muscles and jumpy nerves, and sometimes he’d brush eyeliner around his lashline to pick up men in gay bars, then forget to take it off. His clothes were all too small or too big, his hair badly in need of a wash and a haircut, jaw sporting a perpetual 5 o’clock shadow. He was cleaner than a lot of the people he hung around, thanks to his nightly break ins to the hot springs nearby, but he always smelled like sulfur. Rotten eggs and heat.

“How much is the coat?” she asked, gesturing at the lump of fabric he had draped over his arm. He flipped over the tag. 

“Twenty,” he replied. 

Another tongue click. “I’ll knock five bucks off it.”

“Ten,” Barclay replied, “There’s a rip in the pocket and I’m gonna have to patch the left elbow.”

“Seven, final offer.”

“Can I get any off the -,” his hand spasmed around the sliver of Sylvain’s Heart, “- rock?”

She laughed, rough and deep, which quickly broke off into a cough, wet and dragging like raw meat over rocks. “Hell no, hon,” she said, gasping, “It’s a fuckin’ rock. Take it or leave it.”

He took it. $22.99, the last two dollars and change counted out in quarters, dimes, and nickels. She smiled at him, smokers teeth, yellow and grey, and plucked the change out of his hands with fingers stained from nicotine. He tried not to snarl back in response, shout about her  _ nerve, _ the gall of it all,  _ smiling _ at him as she forced him to pay money for something stolen from his brutalized planet, something that would let him live without a tether.

“I don’t need a bag,” he said, impatient, drumming his fingers against the countertop as she took her time counting out his single penny. She raised a thin eyebrow at him, cracked lips pressing together in a distinctly unimpressed leer.

“I could bum a cigarette, though,” he admitted. She snorted and rolled her eyes, but dug out a pack of Camels, handing him one across the counter with one hand, sliding his coat back over to him with the other. He hadn’t put down the crystal.

He sat outside her shop on the curb and smoked, trying to cool his rage. He kicked the heels of his boots against the asphalt a few times, sitting on his new coat. It was getting cold at night, but still hot during the day. Being angry was useless. Shouting at her was  _ useless. _ She wouldn’t understand even if he told her, explained gentle and kind like teaching the concept of death to a child. She’d laugh at him, because nobody believes in aliens, not  _ really. _ Earth couldn’t have invaded another planet already, they’ve hardly explored the solar system. He inhaled, held the smoke in his chest until it felt like it might burn him from the inside out, coughed on the exhale. 

_ “Fuck _ this,” he muttered, swiping the backs of his hands across his watering eyes and then set to peeling the sticker off the bottom. $9.99. A piece of his home’s  _ soul _ was sitting there like second and third and fourth-hand garbage, mislabeled, unloved, like a fucking  _ rock. _ Not the Heart of his planet, choking, in Her death throes. His world destroyed, and their macabre trophies aren’t even worth  _ ten fucking dollars _ to them.

The sticker left a residue. 

There’s nobody to show it to. There’s nobody to tell the stories to - not without being called crazy, getting locked up.  _ Once, _ he thought he’d say,  _ Sylvain was beautiful. _ He didn’t know what he’d say after that. The Heart had been shattered long before he was born. He’d only heard the stories - the great fire lit up inside the belly of it, the orange glow ever present on the horizon, like the sun perpetually rising.

He ashed his cigarette and left it there on the sidewalk, feeling petulant. He was angry, yes, but not hungry anymore. He could go wherever he wanted now, and he’d never be hungry again.

It was a cold feeling, that hunger - physical food was hot and gnawing in the pit of his stomach, made him reactive and angry.  _ This _ was like standing in the winter air too long without a coat, numb fingers, shivering and exhausted as a black pit opens beneath his feet, promising - soon there will be nothing. Soon you will not remember this. Soon  _ you _ will be nothing. Slide down the side of the ravine, to fall is easier than to stand.

That night, when he stood in the dark next the bridge he was sleeping under, his backpack on, hands cupped around his piece of the Heart like a candle against the wind, he found it sparked brighter when he faced northeast. A divining rod, a compass,  _ go home, go home. _

“Whassat?” asked a voice from behind him, half awake. He looked over his shoulder at the owner - Katya, his only friend on the planet, literally, picking her way up to him.  _ “Woah,” _ she said, stopping. “You’re smiling.”

He brought a hand up to feel his mouth. “Guess I am,” he said, surprised. He walked over to her, showed her the piece of Sylvain’s Heart in the same way his little cousins used to show him things they’d found, but didn’t want him to take. Flat palmed, but held close to the chest. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to let anyone other than himself touch it, it’s been mishandled, mistreated, and unappreciated for far too long. Katya squinted into the orange glow, teeth digging into her lower lip.

“What  _ is _ this?” she said, wonder in her deep voice, eyebrows bunching together. 

“It’s…” he sighed. “A lot of things. A roadmap, sort of. It’s important.”

“Must be,” she said, “I’ve never seen you smile like that. Should do it more often.”

He chuckled and pulled a bottle of nailpolish out of his coat - he’d stolen it from the dollar store, hot candy apple red. Katya liked bright colors. “For you,” he said. 

“You sure know the way to a girls heart,” she said with a wry smile, taking it. Her hands are shaking - he’s pretty sure it’s not from the cold, and there’s a deep purple bruise under one of her thumbnails. “You treat all the bitches you take out this good, handsome?”

“Hell no,” Barclay replied, tucking the Heart into his coat pocket. “Only the best for the best, darling.” He winked.

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Gettin’ cold out,” she said with an exaggerated shiver, running her hands up and down her arms. “C’mon back under with me, take your pack off. Making me nervous, standing out here like you’re boutta run out on me.” She tugged once on his elbow, trying to pull him towards her torn sleeping bag.

He didn’t say anything, looked down at his scuffed boots. It was silent for a minute, then Katya exhaled, scoffed, dug the toe of her shoe into the ground.

“Ah,” she said. “So you are.” Her dark eyes were wet, but her voice was even and smooth.

“You take care of yourself, okay Katya?” he said, awkwardly. “As best as you know how.”

“You too,” she told him.

“I always do,” he assured her.

“No you don’t, idiot,” she replied. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something else, then just shook her head, mouth twisting with unhappiness. He leaned down - though not far, Katya was tall too, and kissed her on the forehead, hands cradling her face, thumbs swiping across the soft skin beneath her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to pack all the meaning he could into those two words, then started walking up the hill towards the road.

“Wait,” she called. He looked back - she was staring down at the little bottle in her hand. Her black hair shone dully under the moonlight. “Where are you headed?”

He smiled. “I’m going home.”

And he did, hitch hiking and sneaking on busses, hopping trains, walking miles and miles east.

* * *

The phone rings in Mama’s office, three weeks after the not-so-grand opening of Amnesty Lodge. She’s down in the basement, working on a draft for a commission. They haven’t had any Sylvans yet - beyond Barclay, but he’s not a patron, he’d be co-owner if she’d managed to convince him to sign his name on the paperwork. He’d balked at first, confused, then just flat out refused, like he was offended by her asking. Mama would have pushed, really, it sometimes feels like all she does is push people, but she was afraid he’d tell her that he didn’t plan on staying here long. They’ve had a few human couples as guests, and one family stayed a week to hike in the Monongahela. The lodge is not an endeavor she expects, or even  _ wants, _ to make money off of.

She hears it stop midring and the quiet rumble of Barclay’s voice through the floorboards as she carefully inks some of her sketch - an angel for a couple in Miami, on its knees with hands folded in prayer, wings tucked in tight - then puts her pen down and heads upstairs. It’s not what she wants to draw, but since the renovation she hasn’t had time for her own work, taking on commission after commission to try and replenish their funds.

The stairs are slow going; Mama’s sore from the last hunt, which ended last night with a bang, literally. Thacker threw a grenade down its throat. She didn’t ask where he was storing explosives, for her sanity, because it was probably something like under his kitchen sink. She gashed open her elbow, bruised her ankle, busted her face open, and the muscles in her back ache. These little complaints keep lingering longer - perks of getting older, she supposes. 

Barclay’s standing behind her desk, cradling the phone’s receiver between his shoulder and ear as she enters her office, bent over to write something on a legal pad. His hair is falling into his eyes, his lips parted slightly as he mouths something to himself, and she can see the crowded bottom row of his teeth, overlapping in some places. Mama’s been trying to watch him less - she has a feeling she was making him uncomfortable from how he paused whenever he caught her, eyebrows furrowing. Since they started living together, she’s found it almost impossible not to look at him. It’s been easier to pull back now that they live in the lodge rather than their- her apartment: there’s more available space to put between them, empty rooms and plenty of square footage. He never has to rub elbows with her if he doesn’t want to. 

Still, Mama can’t help but to admire him sometimes. The bump of the bridge of his nose, the shape of his hands, the jaunty angles of his teeth, the curves of his legs. Her figure drawing practices keep turning to him when she quits paying attention, which she knows is probably creepy. It’s gotten to the point where she’s been forced to admit to herself that it’s not just artistic interest that makes him so captivating - she likes his smile, sure, likes the lines of his body when he stretches his arms above his head or twists to crack his back, of course, and the look of concentration on his face when they stare down the latest abomination is a thing of beauty, yes. 

But he’s smart, insightful, a good listener, and funny in dry lashes of wit that make her laugh until she has to sit down. He’s one of the kindest people she’s ever met, and she likes to hear him speak, which isn’t something she can say about a great variety of people. She asks him to explain things just to have him talk about it - is cinnamon babka as much of a sin as Thacker claims it to be? What gave you the biggest hit of culture shock when you crossed over? What’s an ‘ear’ on a sourdough loaf and why’s it so important? Why should she start making her own laundry detergent? These talks have grown less frequent as they both withdraw into themselves, and away from each other. Mama tries not to miss them too much.

It’s love that keeps her looking - a scary concept, but less frightening knowing that it’s him she’s feeling it towards. She’s getting to be pretty okay with the knowledge that it isn’t going to be returned. She’ll be fine with it, eventually - just happy to have him in her life in whatever ways he wants to be.

Barclay looks up at her and gestures her over, turning the pad around and handing it to her.  _ Sylph, Moira, NYC + homeless, needs help, _ it reads in his even, rounded print. 

“Alright,” Barclay says into the phone, flashing Mama a quick smile. His canines stick out a little further than the rest of his teeth. “I’ve got the owner of the lodge right here, so I’m gonna put you on speakerphone, and we’ll sort this out.”

* * *

It all falls into place easy enough. Barclay runs out and grabs the map Mama keeps in her truck as she and Moira figure out the logistics of getting her here. 

“Wait,” Mama is saying as he walks back in, “Only thing I know of close to a hot spring in New York is Saratoga Springs. How are you keepin’ yourself goin’?” she asks. “Not that it’s any of my business,” she adds, as Barclay hands the road atlas over and sits in her chair.

“I have a piece of Sylvain with me,” Moira says. “I stole it, before I was exiled. Perks of being politically connected, I suppose, but it’s… too small to sustain me for any longer. I am fading, and I am being literal by saying that. I held out as long as I could, as I do like this city, but I lost my job and my apartment a few weeks ago, and if something doesn’t change shortly, I will cease to exist.”

“I see,” Mama says. Barclay presses his hand against the crystal he has around his neck, hidden under his shirt. He tries to do some calculations - he’s fairly certain Moira must have been exiled just after him, because the gate moved less than a year after that, so Moira’s been slowly starving for - Christ, over a decade now. “That’s a problem then, huh,” Mama continues.

“Only somewhat,” Moira says. “The fading will definitely make it easier to get on the train without paying and without being noticed. I just won’t be able to conceal any of my belongings to bring with me beyond what will fit into my pockets.”

Mama sucks on her teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright. I have left much more behind before. My time is almost up, I’m afraid, Selene will be needing her office back. Who should I be looking for? I mean, I’ve seen chauffeurs holding signs and such at airports, but given that I will have been breaking the law it’d probably be smarter not to call too much attention to us.”

“Are you sure?” Mama asks, raising an eyebrow. “We could get all dressed up in suits and little hats. Could be fun. Y’think Thacker’s got any white gloves, Barclay?”

“Whatever Thacker has that used to be white I think I could go without seeing,” Barclay says dryly, and Mama laughs.

“Only if you have a limousine,” Moira tells them, a smile in her voice.

“Really though, you ain’t gonna miss us,” Mama tells her, “We’re both six foot tall brick shithouses and Barclay’s attractive as all get out.”

There’s silence on the line, then a crackling sigh. “Any other identifiers?” Moira says. Barclay puts his head in his hands, trying to stifle his laughter and hide how red his face is getting.

“I’m  _ also _ extraordinarily handsome, if that helps,” Mama continues, winking at him, and he slides down in the chair. 

“Ah. Well, that I  _ will _ be able to pick out,” Moira says, and there’s a slight waver to her words, like she’s trying very hard not to laugh. Barclay covers his eyes when Mama winks at him again. “I’ll be wearing a silver hairpin and a blue coat, and I am most decidedly not six feet tall.” 

“Of course,” Mama says. “9 o’clock, day after tomorrow. We’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” Moira says. Her voice is back to the serene calm of before, an undeniable note of relief barely detectable.

“You be safe, Moira,” Mama says. 

“You two as well,” she replies, and the line clicks dead.

It’s quiet for a moment, and Barclay watches Mama as she taps the eraser of a pencil on her desk, chewing on the inside of her cheek. His hand is still touching the piece of Sylvain’s Heart. 

“You weren’t  _ politically connected, _ were you,” she says, not a question so much as a statement, but he shakes his head anyways. 

“I was not,” he says, pulling the black leather cord off his neck. Mama perches on top of her desk as Barclay wraps the cord around his hand and holds the necklace up to eye level - the crystal dangles from it, wrapped delicately in a web of thread to attach it without damaging it. “I found it over here.”

Mama nods. The crystal catches some of the sunlight coming through the window and glows brighter for a moment, casting orange reflections on the walls, across her face. She reaches out, pausing before she makes contact.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s - it’s beautiful.”

“It’s okay,” Barclay says. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

She holds it, just for a moment, turning it slightly in her fingertips. Barclay watches her. Mama looks a little wonderstruck, a small smile on her lips. She rubs her thumb along a cracked edge, then lets go.  _ I’d like to kiss you, _ Barclay thinks about telling her, but he doesn’t.

* * *

Mama had planned it so that they could leave early the next morning and get to Newark, where the station is, and find a hotel close by, but life is nothing if not good at throwing wrenches into plans. This particular one comes in the shape of Thacker, calling as they’re just about to get in the truck.

“I think I might’ve broken my knee,” he says in lieu of a greeting. 

Mama exhales. “Just now, or durin’ the hunt?”

“...Durin’ the hunt,” Thacker admits. His voice is tight like he’s in pain.

She sighs. “Jesus Christ,” she says.

“I thought I just wrenched it a bit, but it really ain’t gettin’ better,” Thacker says. Barclay walks by the door to her office, car keys in hand, and stops, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Is this a  _ ‘come take a look at it, Mama’ _ or a _ ‘bring me to the hospital, Madeline’ _ type situation?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Barclay’s eyebrows go from confused to concerned.

“Bring me to the hospital, Madeline,” Thacker says, exhaling shakily.

“Be right there,” she replies, then hangs up, rubbing her temples. “Fuck,” she says.

“Thacker do something?” Barclay asks, walking over.

“Gotta go bring him to the hospital,” she says, taking the keys from him. “Probably tore his meniscus or somethin’, I’ll bet, and he waited days to get it looked at, like an idiot, and now it’s gonna be a complicated fix.” She’s working very hard to keep her voice calm, and not quite succeeding from the way Barclay’s looking at her. Her breath feels sharp in her chest. “Christ - what if he needs surgery? We need to head out, how are we gonna -,”

Barclay puts his hands on her upper arms. “Breathe,” he says, and she does. 

“We’ve got this, alright?” Barclay continues. “You go bring him, and if he’s going to be there longer than we can stay, we’ll call somebody up to bring him home. We don’t have to get to Newark until tomorrow morning, it’ll be okay.”

Mama leans into his touch, shutting her eyes for a moment. “Right,” she says. “Right. Ain’t the end of the world. I’ll go get him.”

“Should I come with you?” he asks.

“I think maybe we should have him come here, in case anybody shows up while we’re gone. We got accessible bathrooms and a wheelchair ramp for a reason, right? So if you wouldn’t mind -,” she breaks off to take another breath, and he immediately fills in for her.

“I’ll do a bit of meal prep,” he says, gentle. “Make him some gorp.” He wrinkles his nose just thinking about it, making her laugh. “Set up a bed too.”

“If we ain’t gonna be able to get him back here,” Mama says, “Call Deputy Zeke. He owes me for trappin’ the weasel that was killin’ his chickens.”

“Okay,” Barclay says, smiling. He gives her arms a gentle squeeze and lets go, taking a step back.

Mama bites her tongue to keep from saying something stupid like  _ I don’t know what I’d do without you. _ She knows she would be fine, really, because she’s done it. It’s survivable: she lead an entire life before Barclay and did alright for herself. She just doesn’t want to - her life is better with him in it.

Thacker didn’t tear his meniscus, but it’s still not good, and worsened from letting it go without treatment. His leg is done up in a huge immobilizer and he’ll be on crutches for a while. She and Barclay leave him tucked in on the couch, crutches at his side and door to his room open a few feet down the hall. 

Barclay flips through her collection of CD’s as she drives, and she tries to watch the road for the most part, occasionally getting distracted by his quiet singing or his profile as he looks out the window - sharp, long nose, full lips, the delicate shell of his ear. She entertains the notion of taking his hand in her own for a while - they’ve held hands before plenty of times, but never  _ just because, _ and never for very long. She knows that she likes how his hand fits in hers. She decides against it, just like she decides against telling him she loves him when he comes back in from the rest stop with her favorite bag of chips and a smile. Here, a few states over and upward, the air is cold enough to fog their breaths, and the last of the leaves have left the trees completely. She still feels warm though, next to him.

* * *

They get off the highway at half past 10, after almost five hours on the road. Barclay’s head is promising him a killer migraine if he doesn’t stop trying to read the map in the low light of the streetlamps, and Mama’s tired enough that the car is wavering slightly, weaving unnervingly close to the white line and the rumble strip. They pull up to a motel that’s barely a step above one Barclay would have piled into a few years ago. He and Katya and whatever vaguely trustworthy people they had scrounged up - mostly her fellow sex worker friends - would pool their money and pile into one room just to get some rest in a real bed for a night. Not that he’d ever really sleep there - he’d stay up watching over the lot of them, listening to the quiet breathing and the noises of the motel and making sure nobody did anything like steal from each other or overdose in the bathroom.

He’s remembering Katya’s face, screwed up in concentration as she painted his nails a lemon yellow, water burbling in the tub, bathroom door cracked, as someone else tells him  _ it’s a good thing you’re such a big dude, I’ll bet nobody bothers  _ you _ about  _ your _ nails, _ when Mama’s truck pulls up a little short into a parking spot, jostling him. He inhales, startled.

“Sorry,” Mama mutters, shutting off the truck and rubbing her eyes. She’s washed out in the glow of the streetlight above them, all shades of orange and grey, the bruise on her cheekbone from where one of the abomination’s limbs had managed to nail her barely visible beyond the line of split skin under her eye. It was one of the scariest things he’s ever seen, watching her take the hit and go down  _ hard, _ but he’d driven her to the hospital that night as soon as they’d finished the hunt and the doctors said  _ you’re fine, no concussion, try not to walk behind horses anymore, _ so she’s fine, and will walk behind the metaphorical horse again two months from now. In retrospect, he should have forced Thacker to come too, but the past is the past.

Barclay swallows his impulse to do something stupid like brush his lips against the injury or tell her he loves her. “Don’t worry about it,” he says instead, softer than he intended. “I’ll go get the room.”

Mama digs her wallet out of the cupholder and hands it to him. He has his own money, sure, but she paid it to him, so he just sighs at her and takes it, then reaches into the backseat to grab their backpacks. She follows him to the office but stands just outside the door, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and an engraved zippo lighter that Thacker got her for her birthday last year.  _ My troubles are going to have troubles with me, _ it reads, two baseball bats crossed like an X above the lettering. She looks over at him a little guiltily - she’s been trying to quit, and doing okay at it - he’s pretty sure this will be her first cigarette in a few weeks. 

He doesn’t pay a lot of attention to the woman behind the front desk - he gets a vague impression of early-twenties boredom and brown hair - he keeps looking back over his shoulder at Mama, who opens the pack and just stands there for a long moment, without taking one out.

“ID, please,” the receptionist says, and he holds it out to her. She barely bothers glancing at it before she hands it back. Mama’s put the cigarettes away when Barclay looks again, playing with her lighter and leaning against one of the pillars of the small porch. The square bolt of her jaw flexes as she clenches her teeth, and the stormcloud of her hair glints with pink highlights in the glow of the buzzing neon vacancy sign. She flicks the zippo closed, pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, her breath fogging in the cold air. 

“Dude,” the receptionist says, exasperated, and he realizes she’s holding her hand out, an unimpressed eyebrow raised.

“Sorry,” he says, and pulls out Mama’s wallet. “How much?”

He thanks her and wishes her a good night after he pays, and she mutters something back that might be a thank you, but just as easily could be  _ fuck you, _ or anything else with two syllables. He and Mama walk to the room in silence, their shoulders brushing. Barclay thinks about taking her hand, half hopes that she’ll sling an arm around him, but he doesn’t, and neither does she. 

Of course, once they open the door and turn the lights on, there’s only one bed. 

Barclay opens his mouth to apologize and offer to go back to ask for another room, but before he can say anything Mama goes, “I’ll take the couch.”

Barclay blinks at her, then at the couch, which is probably only long enough for a child to comfortably sleep on. Certainly not Mama, who clocks in at a few inches over six feet tall. “You will not,” he says. “It’s too small, I’ll take it.”

“I’m shorter than you,” she says dryly, kneeling next to the bed and checking under the sheets for bed bugs. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

“So have I,” Mama replies, getting up with a grunt to go check the couch as well. 

“I’ve slept on worse more recently,” he says, putting their bags down and starting to dig through his for the sweatpants he sleeps in. 

“That’s exactly why you should take the bed,” Mama drawls, shrugging. She’s undermined by the bruise like a pomegranate on her cheek and the way she has to use the couch to stand up this time, both couch and bed having passed muster. “You  _ just _ got to quit sleepin’ on my fold out. I’m takin’ the couch, okay?”

“You’re  _ injured,” _ he stresses, and he knows he has her with that. He’d escaped with some very mild bruising, a few scrapes that didn’t even bleed and one scratch along his forearm that did, but had stopped by the time the white-light creature looked over at them from its place hovering above the corpse of the abomination, expressionlessly melting into the night sky.

Mama sets her jaw, and Barclay thinks they’re about to head into a fight (it’d be their first fight, he realizes, despite living together for almost two years they’ve never fought, and he  _ cannot _ think of a stupider reason to have one than this) when she says, “We’ll just have to share it, then.”

He hadn’t been expecting that.

“If you ain’t comfortable with that I’ll sleep on -,” Mama starts when he doesn’t reply immediately.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s fine, I just - are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Mama says. “‘Course I am.”  _ Why wouldn't I be _ hangs in the air, unspoken.

They look at each other, and Barclay wishes, not for the first time, that he could tell what she was seeing when she looked at him, what she was thinking, if anything at all. He used to catch her staring all the time when they lived in their-  _ her _ apartment, across the room as he cooked or while she was drying the dishes he’d just washed, shoulder to shoulder, her gaze soft but unreadable. She doesn’t do it at the lodge. They tiptoe around each other nowadays, for reasons he doesn’t understand. She pulled back suddenly, and so did he, afraid he had done something wrong, made her uncomfortable in her own home.

He used to think about asking -  _ what are you looking at? _ and then wonder about her response, if it’d be a _ just thinkin’, sorry I spaced out there, _ or if she’d say  _ you. _ He wonders if she sees a friend or a brother or somebody she has to take care of, protect, or something else, something that he doesn’t quite dare hope for. He’s loved her in all the ways he thinks there are to love another person in their almost two years of friendship, in varying timespans and strengths, sometimes all of them at once. He’ll be happy no matter where they wind up, but he still wishes that he  _ knew. _ He wishes he knew what about him she liked, his smile, maybe, although probably not - aesthetic dentistry doesn’t exist on Sylvain - or his hands, or his legs, or maybe just all of it, the sum of his parts. 

On the other hand, maybe she looked at him and saw the whole, and thought nothing at all.

Katya used to tell him he thought too much about things like this. She laughed at him about it once, not unkindly, just amused, both of them sitting in a gay bar and holding drinks other people had bought them.

“Get out of your head!” she said, using the mirror behind the bottles of liquor to reapply her orange lipstick, winking at somebody over his shoulder. “If they like you, they like you, you don’t need to get all worked up ‘bout that shit. Most people I’ve met don’t get that deep into  _ attraction.” _ She waved the hand with the lipstick in it through the air dismissively, almost caught him across the cheek with it. “You’re hot, so just try and have some fun. Life’s too short to think so much.”

In the present, Barclay takes a deep breath, skin prickling under Mama’s level stare. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll share.” 

It’s much less awkward than he thought it was going to be. Mama brushes her teeth first, and when he exits the bathroom she’s already in bed on the side closest to the door, looking at the map, all the lights in the room off except for the lamp on the bedside table. The thin carpet is scratchy under his feet as he pads over to the bed, and the beige walls glow gold in the yellow light of the bulb. The room smells strongly of cigarettes and lemon cleaner. Mama has her glasses on but is squinting over the top of them, and as he slides under the covers he reaches over and pushes them up her nose.

“What time do we have to leave by?” he asks quietly.

“I’m shit at math,” she replies, visibly thinking. Her eyebrows furrow and she bites the inside of her cheek. “Think seven fifteen would be good - rather get there early than late, and we dunno how traffic’s gonna be.”

“Okay,” he says, and sets the alarm clock as Mama folds the map back up. The sheets reek of bleach and are stiff, but they’re warm underneath, next to her. He presses nearer, trying not to make it obvious, and she shuts off the lamp. They’re both on their sides, facing away from each other, but their backs are touching. 

“Good night,” she says, and he can feel her voice rumble in her chest like thunder.

“Good night,” he replies.

They both shift closer by degrees - feet touching, then legs, Barclay rolls onto his back and she turns around completely. They end up curling together, Mama’s arm around his torso, her face tucked into his neck. He moves onto his side as well after a few minutes of this, slowly, because her breaths are evening out, deepening, and he doesn’t want to disturb her. He waits until she’s fully asleep before pressing his lips to her forehead, just once, right below the fine curls of her baby hairs. She smells like sawdust - crisp sap and wood, her coconut shampoo, sharp spearmint toothpaste, and there’s an undercurrent of something akin to the scent of autumn, uniquely  _ her. _

Barclay lays awake for a few more minutes, sleepless, before deciding to take Katya’s advice and think a little less.

He wakes up sometime hours later. It’s still dark out, and they’ve migrated in their sleep to the position they’d been in at first, back to back. He can feel the muscles around her shoulder blades tense against his as she grumbles something unintelligible, clearly dreaming.  _ No wonder your back hurts all the time, _ he thinks sleepily, and presses firmer against her until she relaxes again, and he falls back asleep.

In the morning Mama’s up before him, and before the alarm. Barclay wakes when she sits up, just a little, enough to clock the movement and decide it nonthreatening. It's a while after that that his brain fully comes back online, registering that she’s laid back down, and the alarm will go off any minute now. Her hand is on his stomach, just above his hip, one of her legs slung over his, and she’s burrowed under the covers almost completely, just the top half of her face sticking out. Her eyes are half open, and she sighs as he yawns, cracking his jaw.

“Sleep well?” she asks, voice raspy and unused. The alarm goes off and they both jump hard, Mama sitting bolt upright and Barclay making a sound he’s deeply embarrassed by, quickly shutting it off. 

Mama’s chuckling at him when he looks back over at her. He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “What?” he asks.

She shakes her head, smiling. “Nothin’,” she says. “Sounded like somebody stepped on a chipmunk.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, trying to keep a straight face and failing quite badly. His lips keep twitching. The sun streaming in through the shitty curtains lights up her curls like a halo, the grey strands glittering like stardust amongst the black, and for a moment he wants to kiss her so bad it makes his chest ache. She slides her legs over the side of the bed and stretches her arms. What sounds like just about every joint in her body cracks at once, and they both wince. Barclay moves so he’s sitting behind her and runs his hands down her trapezius muscles, firm, and she exhales heavily. He realizes what he’s doing and goes to apologize, ask for permission first, but Mama shoves back into him when he pauses, so he figures he’s probably got the all clear. 

Her skin is blood hot from being under the blankets, soft under his palms. Barclay presses firmly into a muscle knot, feeling it pop and shift. She grunts, but doesn’t tell him to stop. There’s a line from the sheets pressed into her shoulder blade, just beside one of the straps of her grey tank top. He lifts her hair out of the way so he can work some of the tension out of her neck, and for a second he thinks about leaning forward and kissing her there, on the knob of her spine. He rubs his thumbs down her neck instead, listens to her breath shuddering out of her as some of her tension eases away. 

Barclay only stops when he glances back at the clock and realizes that really, if they don’t start getting dressed now, they’re not going to get out on time. He never knew Moira directly, but from what he’s heard and the way they’d spoken on the phone, she seems like someone who appreciates punctuality. He pats Mama’s shoulders, meaning to get up, but one of her hands and covers his. 

“Thanks,” she says. “You’re good at that.” Her voice is soft and gentle in a way he’s heard only a few times - her crooning to a dazed bird that hit one of the windows at the lodge, the kittens she found on the side of the road in a bag, to himself barely a week after moving in with her, waking up out of a nightmare and into a panic attack. Her head tips over so she can rest her cheek against their hands on her shoulder, then she sighs and stands up.

He allows himself a half second of a glance at her - the well defined muscles of her thighs, the waistband of her boxer briefs clinging just above her hip bones, the soft curve of her stomach, the black hair on her calves - and then quickly looks away, feeling his face heat up.

He has first dibs on the bathroom, and makes the bed while she brushes her teeth. He knows that it’ll get stripped and washed anyways, but it doesn’t feel right to leave it a mess. He sits on it and scrawls a quick thank you onto a notepad, puts a twenty on it. Their bags are waiting by the door. He’s lacing up his boots when Mama exits the bathroom - she sits down next to him, the bed dipping under her weight, and he looks up at her, one shoe still undone. Her face is unreadable again, soft. Barclay can feel his heart beating a little harder against his ribcage, something hot flutters in his stomach. She brushes a strand of hair behind his ear and leans in.

Her lips are warm against his, soft, her hand cups the back of his head, long fingers tangling in his hair. It’s not quick, but it’s over too soon - she pulls back and he leans forward, chasing after that connection, desperate. She looks over at the clock and sighs.

“I’ll go start the truck,” she says quietly, as if her hand isn’t still sliding along his jawline as she withdraws, her pupils barely visible against the deep brown of her irises, but clearly blown wide. She stands, grabs their bags and the car keys, walks out. 

Barclay stares at the shiny green paint of the door long after it swings closed, then realizes his mouth is hanging open and shuts it. He presses the back of his hand against his lips, trying to set the feeling of her kiss and the taste of her unscented chapstick into the ever-eroding stone of memory. He hears the distant rumble of her truck starting in the parking lot, and he exhales his held breath like he’s been punched. 

They hit a little traffic, but still manage to pull into the station parking lot at the right time, just as people are exiting the building. Mama played Fleetwood Mac and didn’t look at him during the drive, her hands firmly at 11 and 2 on the wheel, occasionally whistling along to the melody. Barclay didn’t say anything - he wasn’t sure what  _ to _ say. 

“Silver hairpin, right?” Mama asks, their first words in hours. She hops out and crosses to his side of the truck, opening the door for him.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping out. Mama hums, scanning the crowd with her eyebrows furrowed.

Barclay spots her first, appearing just behind a family, like he’d blinked and missed it, even though he hadn’t blinked. She’s in a long, powder blue coat that seems like it may have fit her once but doesn’t anymore, hanging off her frame. He’s pretty sure it’s made of Sylvan wool, and the expensive kind at that, meticulously taken care of. She looks weary in a way that doesn’t match her smooth, strong voice over the phone, her face nearly the same grey as her slacks, which are wrinkled as though they’d been folded tight and small for a very long while, unworn. She looks across the parking lot for them and Barclay waves her over, elbowing Mama in the ribs.

“Good morning,” Moira says when they reach each other. “Mama and Barclay, I presume? I would shake your hands, but, ah.” She inhales, hesitates, her lips pursing with displeasure.  _ “Corporeality _ is a tad bit beyond me at this point, I’m afraid. I’m lucky this is staying in.” Her hand hovers near her hairpin - nearly the same color as her hair - but does not actually touch it.

Barclay pulls his shard of the Heart off from around his neck. Moira startles at the sight of it, her mouth falling open, and he passes it over to her. Moira’s hands - delicate and slender like birds - cup around it, her fingers shaking almost imperceptibly. She inhales sharply, shutting her eyes and pressing it to her sternum. She sways slightly on her feet, but Barclay can see a little color returning to her face, and when she looks back up at them her eyes are clear, sharp and black like obsidian. 

“You were too young to see it,” she says to Barclay, quietly. “But long before you were born, Sylvain was -,” she sighs. “She was a sight to behold. Those times are long gone now, of course, but She was stunning, once.”

“I believe you,” Barclay says, just as quiet. “I believe you.”

“Apologies,” Moira says, to Mama this time, “I promise I am not always this maudlin, but sometimes it can’t be helped, I suppose.” 

“It’s quite alright,” Mama says, gentle. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” She offers Moira her arm. “Shall we be off? My truck ain’t quite a limo, but it’ll have to do.”

Moira’s exhale is almost a laugh, and she takes the proffered elbow. Her hand very briefly almost goes through Mama’s coat, but her fingers tighten around the Heart, and she manages the contact. “I am sure it will do just fine.”

Moira’s asleep by the time Mama starts her truck, head leaned against the window. Mama looks at him, reaching across the center console and taking his hand in her own. Her fingers slip neatly between his, like they belong there. 

“Let’s go home,” she says. “And we figure out where to go from here.”

“Yeah,” Barclay says, and lifts her hand to press his lips to the back of it. “Let's go home.”

Mama smiles at him, like the sunrise, like she could do it forever, like she sees him, whole. She has to let go of his hand because her truck is a stick shift, but he doesn’t mind. They’ll figure out where to go when they get home.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU diego. i love you more than i love these two idiots. You can find him on tumblr @ cheerie and me @ themlet. comments and kudos always appreciated <3  
Title from funeral singers by sylvan esso


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